


In Crimson And Noir

by throughtheparadox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adlock, Events After The Final Problem, F/M, Sherene, comments are pretty much appreciated, i'm not the best writer please forgive me, sherlock bbc - Freeform, sherlock s4, sherlock x irene - Freeform, shirene, the adlock yacht
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughtheparadox/pseuds/throughtheparadox
Summary: Following the events of The Final Problem, Sherlock is faced with the terrors of his own reckoning, and revelations about Irene Adler's past that will challenge the obscure sorrows of his own heart and mind.





	1. Nothing Less Than A Seven

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written chaptered fics in a while so this is getting me nervous. Some of these will have callbacks or references to one-shots and personal headcanons that I have about Adlock, so if you've been reading my works for a while, then you might catch them. Enjoy! <3

Normalcy. 

Sherlock never really imagined he would dream of such, but even after months of what happened in Sherrinford, he still finds himself waking up in the middle of the night, breathless in memory of that vivid day. 

Baker Street was eerie with silence, the ticking of the clock in pace with the sound of his own heart. He was slick with sweat from the crimson trails crossing his vision, and the contrast of the room’s darkness was making things worst. It was like he was in a constant state of unrest, body exhausted even if he was fresh from a deep slumber.

There was a certain dread that was at the pit of his stomach, of yearning and despair wrapped into this abyss of emotion that he couldn’t put his finger on, and in the cold and desperate night, one face flashed in his mind. 

Irene Adler’s. 

Knowing that his sister left her out of their game was his source of light every time he wakes from his nightmares, an unadmitted relief washing through his entire body. She was going through enough as it is, and to be dragged into another conundrum as orchestrated by his own kin would feel too much even for him. 

Besides, he couldn’t stand the idea of losing her because of his own recklessness. With his mind fleeting to Mary, he ran his fingers over his damp hair in exasperation. He’s had enough with grief. 

And he hasn’t talked to The Woman yet about that night when he seeked for her company, that fateful night when the world came crashing down along with Mary Watson. It was a moment of weakness that he had shared with her, a devastating loss and the feeling of sickening isolation that drove him to the one person whose death, or more like fake death, also punctured him to the core.

His mind reeled, looking at the time on his phone flashing just a few minutes past two in the morning, and he wondered if she was also as restless as he was. Still, with his fingers trying hard to not unlock his phone and dial her number, he sighed and went to search his bedside drawer instead, letting out as sigh as he patted three nicotine patches onto his skin. 

Why can’t the sun seep through the windows fast enough? 

***

“Sherlock… Still having nightmares?” John asked as he sipped his coffee. 

There was no use in denying, for the doctor had also confessed he had his fair share of bad dreams. Sherlock sighed and nodded at the same time.  
“You know… Talking to someone helps. A bit.” his friend offered, unconvincingly. 

“I’m talking to you. And we have our cases. That’s all I need.” he replied, biting back the rather nasty retort he had in his head. He’s learned to practice control and a little bit of sympathy after…well… after the humbling experience with Eurus. 

John simply shrugged and went back to scrolling through his laptop, And yet despite his friend’s attempt to show interest in the news headlines, Sherlock could easily read through his glassy expression. 

“Ho-- How about you, John? The new therapist helping you well?” he tried to inject more curiosity in his tone, despite his mind whispering what he already knew.

John gave a soft laugh. “Last I checked, she’s not related to you so… I guess that’s good.”

Sherlock smiled back at the joke, trying to cover up the idea that it pained him to see so clearly how John was always at the brink of breaking down, eyes still focusing on one spot of the room and then the other. And he knew exactly why: the doctor continues to see his wife. And no therapist, or any other person, could amount to taking away that kind of burden and pain -- Sherlock believes that it is one of the few things about emotions that he had come to understand. 

The very reason why he regretted being a little too welcoming towards their new client. 

***

“So let me get this straight. You came here from America upon hearing the news that your wife was dead, only to identify a completely different body in her place. Name and age were also different, no apparent similarities or indications that could lead to being mistaken as your wife, and you, a barrister, has done nothing to check her or the other dead woman’s records. Well, this is quite...” Sherlock was about to say ‘idiotic’ but John shot him a look and he said, “... odd,” instead. 

“As I said, Mr. Holmes, I tried to ask and trace back the papers….anything. And she was… is my ex-wife. We have been separated for years now and I haven’t heard from her since.” the man sighed. “Plus, the morgue…It was like they didn’t even try. All they said was that she was brought in, with me as her immediate contact and that’s all they have. That poor old lady was even laid in a coffin too big for her -- it could fit two people!” the man exclaimed, running his hand over his head in despair. “I even tried to look for her family, but nothing.”

John cleared his throat. “Certainly interesting. Maybe about an eight?”

The man raised his head curiously. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock ignored the client, turning to John. “Not really. But seeing that it’s a dull week, then this should do.”

“So… Should we start with the morgue?” John quipped. 

Sherlock looked at the client pointedly. “Oh, please. The woman’s dead and the people at the morgue probably just pulled anything they could to get this supposed mystery to a close. We should start with his wife. Find out where she actually is.”

There was something about the entire thing that sent chills down his spine, even if it was nothing more than the usual cases he was handling. It was like a premonition dawned to him, a burning feeling forming in his chest as he stared at the open door past where their client was sat. 

He was snapped out of his trance upon hearing John’s voice. 

“Can we have her name then? Or a photograph to start with?” said John. 

“Ah yes, of course.” the man replied, rummaging through his briefcase. 

As the man handed the photograph to John, Sherlock saw his friend’s expression turn into an explicit display of shock and confusion. 

“What is it?” he asked, unsure why his heart was pounding loudly in his chest. 

John turned to look at him, handing him the photograph stiffly. And that’s when he saw what caused the doctor’s paralysed expression.The familiar features, though much younger in the photograph, was unmistakeable. 

“Is something the matter?” asked their client. When they didn’t reply, he continued. “That’s her... My ex-wife. Irayna Norton… or -- more appropriately since we’re divorced -- ‘Adler’?”


	2. Gnossienne

The guest, who left hours ago, left an inexplicable pang in Sherlock’s chest. Every feature of interest grew more and more raw in his own mind, analysing whether he had missed anything about his client upon their meeting. 

Mr. Norton’s hazel eyes bore sleeplessness and desperation, his gait of a barrister’s, as Sherlock had deduced and confirmed, proven by the marks in the skin of his wrists and the glare formed in his rimmed glasses. 

Sherlock wanted to unravel a lie -- any lie -- somehow to prove that he was being played by his client, but unable to find a resolve to support his newfound bias. 

He felt a rather painful tug against his scalp that woke him from his reverie. Turning to lie on his side, he was welcomed into the present by Rosie’s curious blue eyes. 

“Did your daddy send you?” he asked the child with a sigh. 

Rosie shook her head. “Can I sit beside you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, studying the child’s unwavering gait before resigning. It has been familiar to him that the child of three-and-half-years will never take no for an answer, especially when she has that eager glint in her eye very much like her mother’s. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“You look sick.” she replied, climbing up Sherlock’s lap and leaning on him to place the back of her hand on his forehead. “Did anything happen?”

She slid down upon checking his temperature, eyes never leaving him as she waited for an answer. Being with the child was a delight and a burden in one, as she reminds him so much of her mother, but quite unfairly as she was also a person of her own. Sherlock patted her playfully on her head, making her curls grow more messy. 

“I met an unexpected client who took me by surprise. Initially, I thought I could work on the case mediocrely as it didn’t seem that interesting, but after certain circumstances, I find myself… conflicted.” he replied, feeling no need to hold back despite his current company. 

He saw Rosie considering him, pursing her lips much in a manner similar to John’s. 

“Dad said it was because of the love of your life. Is that true?” she asked, eyes drinking him in like a ocean with no end. 

Sherlock wanted to pretend that he was surprised, but knowing that the words came directly from John, there was nothing more to expect. The doctor had always pressed on the matters of the heart especially when Irene Adler is involved, and even to his stubbornness, he couldn’t quite disagree to his friend’s claims. 

Still, with Rosie’s question hanging in the air, what was he to say?

“I-- It’s not that simple.” he muttered. 

The child sighed dramatically. “Dad said you’ll say that.”

To his own surprise, Sherlock laughed. “I’m sure he did.”

Rosie looked at him intently, trying to read into his expression. “You can answer me honestly, you know. It’s not like I tell daddy everything.”

***

Sherlock could feel the blood pulsating through his veins, almost in unison to the ticking of the clock. Rosie has left with her father, much to both his and the child’s dismay, the twists and turns of him avoiding her insistent question a significant diversion from the impending mystery he wanted to escape from. One part of him wanted to get answers right in that moment, the other wavering every time his mobile phone is at his palm. 

What irks him the most is knowing that only Irene Adler can make him feel and act like this.

He paced the living room almost endlessly, the night getting deeper and deeper by the minute. Closing his eyes to put the facts in perspective, he could only come to an underlying question: why now? 

There must be another player in this entire scenario, pitting him against this man who claims to know beyond the Irene Adler he met. He has been broken by his own sister to reveal the weaknesses of his heart, and everything just fell right into place as it is, his predilections towards The Woman an obvious pressure point that remained untouched, both by the late Charles Augustus Magnussen and Eurus’ previous game. 

“Or, dear brother...” taunted Mycroft’s voice in his mind palace “... you just can’t accept the fact that Irene Adler’s life did not start and will probably not end with you.”

“Shut up.” he hissed to himself. 

“Sentiment, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice echoed in his head once more, making Sherlock slam his fists against the fireplace’s mantelpiece.

With the loud thud he made, he was almost sorry upon hearing the shuffling on the floor below him, concluding that Mrs. Hudson woke at the sound of his agitation. He sighed, basking in the darkness of the room with only the streetlamps as its only source of light, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel an incredible amount of exhaustion beyond physiological. 

The voice in his own mind kept on whispering such harsh truths about Irene Adler being more of a mystery to him day by day, tugging his chest with more friction every time the thought of her committing to someone else in such an unexpected manner crossed his consciousness. 

Marriage was not something he could picture when he thinks of The Woman -- at least in the context of being with someone so mundane as the man who seeked so desperately for his help. 

“But if it’s you, then it’s okay?” he heard Mary say, his mind always conjuring her whenever he was struggling with an internal conundrum. 

He turned and saw her as vivid as day by the couch, looking up at him with a teasing smile. 

“I didn’t say that.” he murmured, eyeing her gleeful expression. 

“But you’re thinking it.” she said as-a-matter-of-factly. 

Sherlock sighed. “Why does it have to be you?”

Mary grinned. “Because you miss me. And because you think I’m smarter than you. Of course, you’re right.”

Despite the situation, he smiled. “What should I do?”

To his surprise, Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m inside your head, Sherlock. You already know what to do, you’re just scared to find out her truth.”

The realisation sent him a wave of sadness, making him look away into the glistening raindrops sliding down the window. He stared for a long time, eyes trained on a single droplet reaching the bottom of the window pane, mind still reeling on the chances that factored into the situation he was facing. 

And as if from the other side of the world another mind has resonated with his own, he heard a familiar text alert echo within the confines of 221B.


	3. The Man Who Died Twice

Grabbing nothing but his coat, he fled into the cold night, mind crossing over the few hours of him seeing her. 

One starry night, the man who died twice came to see me. IA.

Sherlock looked out to the sun breaking into the horizon, still on a high from the adrenaline of catching a flight at the last minute. His eagerness came from frustration, his current case rambling into his insides like a demanding child. The flashing image of Godfrey Norton’s dark hair and blue eyes sent a wave of irritation in him that was almost ridiculous, making him cuss under his breath. 

“Give him a puzzle and watch him dance.” he heard Mycroft’s say inside his mind. 

Gritting his teeth, the flight felt like an eternity to the point that he almost jumped from his seat as soon as they were allowed to leave the aircraft. Eyes scanning the familiar sights of Schiphol, Sherlock went on the seek The Woman based on her clue. 

He was quite frustrated with himself that he was not equipped with such knowledge of the arts, often dismissing them as a waste of space in his hard drive. And Irene Adler knew exactly how to irk him, sending him a game that was both easy and hard. 

So in the end, was it unfair to cheat? He did use his wits to come into his conclusion. 

‘One starry night’ was an obvious reference to Irene’s fascination with Van Gogh, and as there was a museum named after him found in Amsterdam, then that was a start. The second piece of the puzzle was quite a mind-boggler, but a few exchanges with Siri, it led him to find a poem that is a 1925 Pulitzer Prize awardee named The Man Who Died Twice. And so, Irene’s current residence was the 19th room in the 25th building of the Pulitzer Hotel. 

Everything was blurry and sharp at the same time, with the detective fumbling over his own steps upon seeking for where he believes her to be. It was never just about him being sleepless and exhausted, it was more of the internal dilemma that he was dealing with, the thoughts of her living beyond who he knew her was driving him mad. 

It wasn’t until he realised he was banging at her door that he was awaken from his own nightmarish thoughts. 

And then she was there, eyes with the same amused glint she had always had for him, lips with a ghost of a smile. He wondered if he look drunken or murderous, or maybe even both, but his own body dismissed the warnings him own mind held. All he knew was that he found himself launching at her, rage filling in with a sense of dominance demanding for her ultimate attention. His lips was brute against her own, a growl escaping from his throat. 

“Did you miss me that much?” Irene breathed against his lips, a grin forming across her face.  
“You have some explaining to do.” Sherlock hissed, his tongue rolling down the warm skin on her neck. Irene let out a moan, grabbing the detective’s coat by the lapel and sliding it off his shoulders. 

He let his own hands explore the shape of her body, familiar yet foreign all the same. But before he could lose himself in her, his fingers stopped by her waist, and ended up dropping them to his sides completely. 

Irene was flushed like himself, looking up at him still with an expectant look in her eyes. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

The silence in the room became much too evident. What was filled with surprised moans and gasps at one moment was filled with thrill the next, and Sherlock only met Irene’s eyes when he gathered himself completely. Picking his coat from the floor, he turned away from her and took his time hanging it by the rack before looking back, wondering why he was being this… dramatic. 

“You have always been a drama queen.” John’s voice quipped in his head. 

“Shut up, John.” he replied internally, making an annoyed expression in present. 

Giving out a sigh, he decided to finally face the matter at hand and said. “You had a husband.”

Irene raised her eyebrows at him. “That’s not a question.”

“It’s because the answer itself came to my doorstep and asked for my help in finding you.” he replied. 

Irene walked towards the bed and sat there, stance completely inviting him to continue the narrative. It was clear that it wasn’t her who will make the first elaboration, and Sherlock knew that if he wanted to know more from her, then he would have to tell her everything he knew first. Taking the seat by the vanity table from across the bed, he looked at Irene’s unreadable expression intently before giving in the details. 

“And where did this old woman live?” Irene asked. 

“Your brilliant husband didn’t have a clue. So much for intelligence.” he spat. 

Irene smirked. “It’s not so much as intelligence, but rather the lack of information, Sherlock. Don’t be so impolite.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, please. If he was so clever, then he would have asked for any other details before flying in back to London and be stuck in this whole mess.”  
“But it did concern someone he cared for deeply. Wouldn’t that make you rush back too?” Irene stated, almost too intentionally. 

“So if he cared for you deeply enough to send him running back to London, then what happened that broke off your sacred marriage?” Sherlock bellowed, his heart hammering in his chest. 

Irene leaned forward with her chin resting on her fingers, a smile almost venomous playing on her lips. “Is this jealousy?”

“This is an inquiry.” Sherlock replied curtly. 

“Is that why you were so excited to see me? For an interrogation?” Irene was studying Sherlock closely, her voice remaining to be calm. 

Eurus popped in his head with her blank expression, her words almost haunting. “You were always so emotional. Was. Still. Never changing.”

Sherlock could feel his head spinning, unnerved by his own actions. Irene was right. What answers did he seek? Was he ready to hear them? Does it matter? She’s no longer with that man now. But is she his? Now? In this moment?

No. 

She was and will never be anyone else’s. 

She was her own woman. 

The Woman. 

But with that said, what is this? Them?

“Were you really this obvious? Because this is textbook, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice offered smugly.

Sherlock felt himself resign. It didn’t matter. At least for now. He needed a distraction from his own riddled thoughts, and she was looking at him the same way she does every time she reads through him, the unspoken words making sense in their own special language. Everything started to blur and two bodies became one, sending him to be a violinist at work, and her an artist owning her canvas. It seemed like what was looming over them was to be momentarily forgotten.

But even after feeling her against him, he couldn’t deny that his mind can’t take away the tricks it played. His eyes could never fully look at her sleeping face without the image of her in that simple man’s company, the skin on the fourth finger of her left hand kissing a ring that held a poisonous vow. The picture was too vivid, and too much… just too much…and he couldn’t help but feel like his windpipe was being crushed by her own crimson-painted nails.

He tossed and turned until the sun glinted through the gaps of the curtains, scrolling through his mobile phone to read through the minimal information regarding the old woman who was used to lure Mr. Norton back. 

A few moments past and a new message seemed to have been sent to him, more specifically an email from John containing a some more documents from the morgue, quite a number of photographs, and a note saying, “It was all Greg and I could gather.”

Note to self: thank Gary and John later. 

Studying the information rigorously, he felt Irene shuffle next to him, her dreamy eyes catching his extensive research. His fingers stopped flipping through the photographs, his attention turning to her amused expression.

“Is it too late to comment how inappropriate this is…” pertaining to them in bed together, “... even just in the presence of you ex-husband’s photograph?” he said deadpan, nodding slightly towards the flashed image on his screen.

Irene’s soft smile turned to a questioning gaze, almost bordering to confusion upon hearing him. Her eyes landed on the photograph once more as if to validate his statement, the very look on her face spelt something had horribly gone wrong. 

Her next words proved his conclusion correct. 

With a worried voice, Irene claimed, “Sherlock… that’s not Godfrey.”


	4. Delirium

Dark hair that’s almost too sleek with product, hooked nose, brown -- bordering on hazel-- eyes, a shadow of a moustache present that’s rather hastily shaven, six foot two…

Sherlock kept on running all his observations inside his head, looking for a miscalculation. There were only a handful of times that he was misled by disguises, much to the genius that is Moriarty and his own sister Eurus. So who is this man? Why is he pretending to be Irene’s ex-husband? 

But beyond the agitation rising up the back of his neck was the trembling in his chest as to why Irene was suddenly at the core of the situation. She noted that the man has gone through quite some effort, as the features are almost similar to her former spouse, enough to fool an ordinary man’s eye in a dark alley or in the form of a silhouette. 

Sherlock’s own mind was racing against him.

Taking him away from his own demise was the feeling of warm hands pressing against his bare shoulders, soft rubbing gestures easing the tension. The warmth spread across his chest when Irene leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, her signature smile touching the skin on his shoulder blade. 

“Stop it. Whatever it is that you’re worried about, just stop it, Mr. Holmes.” she whispered against his ear, sending a wave of mixed emotions inside of him. 

This… comfort… in her presence was somehow in danger, and he couldn’t comprehend the amount of foolishness he had allowed himself to be in. But Irene remained to be Irene, calm at the threat of a storm, unwavered by the mystery that he himself found extremely eerie. 

The same feeling was utterly familiar, mind bringing him back to Magnussen’s implied threat against The Woman’s safety as he laid helplessly in a hospital bed some time ago. With the idea of a malicious mind similar to the one he’s blown with a bullet in protection of John, Mary, and -- to a significant extent -- Irene hovering over their lives once more was almost enough to make him breathless. 

He was no longer the invincible persona he once believed himself to be, for his encounter with his sister in that merciless maze made him more human, and for this even he could admit a tinge of fear. 

“I will burn the heart out of you.” hissed Moriarty in his head, and Sherlock cussed under his breath. His mind crossed with the idea of his nemesis proving true to his promise. Has Moriarty done the best he could? Was driving him down Reichenbach the final call? 

Despite his death, Moriarty’s ghost haunts him still. 

“Sherlock…” he heard Irene say, bringing him back to the dimly lit room they had spent the night in.   
“Yes?” he replied, voice unable to hide exhaustion and despair. 

“You didn’t listen to me.” she quipped. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, confused. “About?”

“I said you shouldn’t worry.” Irene purred, holding him closer to her. 

Her hands were meeting by his torso, and Sherlock felt compelled to reach for the softness of her skin against his own. Turning to face her, he could feel her breath brushing his lips due to the proximity, and she was eyeing him expectantly with her knowing expression. 

“Sentiment’s getting better of you.” she whispered almost wickedly before closing their gap with a kiss, and amidst his distress he found himself smiling at her remark. 

“I thought we’ve established that long enough,” he simply replied, before melting into her like always. 

***

“So, how’s the trip? Did you say hello to Irene Adler for me?” John greeted upon his arrival, a ghost of a smile playing in his lips. Rosie, who was just behind her father, bore the same expectant expression, as if taunting Sherlock to tell-it-all. 

Sherlock sighed, busying himself with a newspaper. “Hello to you, too, John. Rosamund.”

“What did I do wrong this time? You only call me ‘Rosamund’ when I misbehave. Is something the matter?” the child asked, and John couldn’t help but laugh at her daughter’s choice of words. 

“Hear that, Sherlock? What did Rosie do that was considered ‘misbehaving’?” the doctor quipped, making the detective roll his eyes. 

“Am I missing a joke, daddy? Or is this because of the person you told me about that is super important to Uncle Sherlock?” Rosie eyed her father curiously, who was significantly turning red in his own amusement. John made his best attempt to compose himself, probably bashful for being caught spilling secrets to his child. He cleared his throat before ordering his daughter to go and stay with Mrs. Hudson downstairs, the child demanding to be in-the-know, eyes going back and forth between her father and godfather as if on a plea. Sherlock gave her a soft smile and simply shook his head no, and somehow Rosie found it more reasonable, turning to where she was being instructed to go. 

“Why does she like you more than me? Even that, she got from… Mary” John sighed, turning away slightly with a nervous chuckle. Sherlock remained silent, catching a glimpse of his friend fighting back some tears.

When the doctor turned back to him, he was to bearing the same expectant look as before, unspoken words asking what happened between his and Irene’s most recent rendezvous. 

“The person who came here was not her ex-husband… At least, not the real one.” Sherlock stated, hands resting over his lips as he claims his ‘signature’ thinking position. 

“And why am I not surprised?” John sighed in disbelief. “As if there could be enough twists and turns about this case.”

“Though Irene did mention that this was definitely made in effort.” Sherlock remarked, proceeding to explain the physical similarities between the imposter and the real Godfrey Norton. 

“Did she have a photograph of the real Mr. Norton? Maybe we can look him up? Talk to him?” John offered. 

Somehow, the suggestion made Sherlock feel uneasy, and even annoyed, logical as it is. 

“Why would she keep a photograph?” he snapped, of course leading to John’s amusement. 

“You didn’t ask her, did you? Did you even think of looking for the guy?” the doctor asked, grinning. 

Sherlock cussed. “Why are you smiling? This isn’t the time to... “

“You are intimidated by the idea of Irene Adler’s ex-husband.” John exclaimed, prodding Sherlock to admit to his claim. 

“What does this have to do with the case?” Sherlock replied exasperatedly. 

“Well, being the smarter one, I figured that you have already deduced that the best solution is to find out where the real Godfrey Norton is before confronting this imposter, who can be a significant threat. I mean, we can make him think he’s got the upper hand, but the truth is we’ll have the advantage knowing his motives.” John argued. “Instead, you’re off mulling over your ego, which, by the way, won’t do any good in protecting the woman that you love!”

“I-- I -- yes. Erm… You… It makes sense.” Sherlock murmured. 

John rolled his eyes. “Do I have to make a bloody speech every single time when it comes to you and Irene?” 

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, the doctor joining him. 

But the plan was cut short when an unexpected parcel arrived at 221B’s doorstep as if on cue, spilling with photographs of a man looking much like their faux client but with features much more aquiline and heavy, leading Sherlock to think that this was the real Godfrey Norton. 

The man in the images, whose skin was bruised and seemingly lifeless, lay bare in what seemed like a coffin that was strangely familiar, and as Sherlock was about to pinpoint why it was so, his eyes landed on the back of the each photograph, all carrying the same words that was obviously meant to taunt him. 

_The game is not yet over._


	5. Predator And Prey

“Sherlock, where are you --”

Before the doctor could even catch up to him, Sherlock was already on his feet, grabbing his coat with no hesitation. He knows exactly where to head, calculating if 48 hours (and counting) was enough to have distracted him to notice the now prevailing obviousness of the situation. 

Almost slumping himself into the back of the cab, he hastily told the driver to bring him to morgue, words of the stranger who called himself Godfrey Norton ringing in his ears. 

_“That poor old lady was even laid in a coffin too big for her -- it could fit two people!”_

Of course! How could he have missed it? The deliberate curling of the words that was meant to pass off as an incredulous remark, almost too idiotic to even note, especially when Mr. ‘Norton’ was posing as a man of pedigree, was a way of fishing him in. Sherlock cussed himself internally for falling for such ignorance. Is this why John was so adamant on keeping him grounded even with his intellect? That such quirks that shouldn’t have gone amiss just went over his head simply because he believed people are so impressionable?

The mere idea was a message -- a joke even -- that was meant to slap him in the face as soon as he realise it, much like the play on words Moriarty had planted in everbody’s head to lead him over the edge of Barts -- the memory of the lie that is Richard Brooke. 

It felt like seconds in his head, but the cab came to a halt and he had reached his destination. 

\---

“Where is it?” he bellowed, sending the staff of the morgue in a panic-stricken stance. It would’ve been easier if it had been Barts for Molly would know exactly what he needs, but this small and lowly establishment was not used to his sense of urgency. 

Despite the protests of the attendant, he raced through the cadavers covered in a white sheet, heading to the next room to look for the coffin he had seen in the photos. 

“Sir, you can’t--”

Busting another door open, he found himself scrambling for the coffin at the right hand corner of the room, yanking it with much force as soon as he got his hands on it. 

His eyes was met with nothing but the soft felt material of the box’s innings. Scanning all the angles of the casket, he was certain it was the one he was looking for. 

“Sir, I told you, you can’t be here.” the attendant breathed, avoiding direct contact with the detective’s blazing eyes. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and flashed the photo of the old woman, who was then occupying the now empty coffin. 

“Where’s the body? Has this been tampered with when you removed the body?” he asked in haste, tapping on the coffin’s material at every corner. There has to be something in here. Think.

It was indeed too big for the old woman, but not in a way that was spacious. This casket was much too bulky, volume overcompensating and grand for a claim that the morgue _simply did not care_. This was in an extreme elaboration. Dramatic, even. 

Strapping away the lining of the coffin, the hollow sides of the supposed end surface felt unsteady. Sherlock jerked at the corner with much force, to the attendant’s protest to which he dismissed with a hiss, until a thud was heard, a sign of the coffin’s base breaking. 

With a faint smell exuding from the formed hull, Sherlock covered his nose with his hand and continued to break into the material. The attendant, resigned, decided to simply cooperate and help him. 

All the attendant could do is gasp at the sight of a man’s calf and feet being more visible as they cracked the surface open, toes and veins in a dangerous shade of purple. Sherlock gave the base another quick but careful swing to let ascertain the captive hidden beneath, showing him the face of the real Godfrey Norton, who was breaths away from being a cold corpse. 

\---

“We’ve checked the tapes. Nothing.” said Lestrade, looking up inquisitively at Sherlock’s unreadable expression. 

“Has the… has Mr. Norton been taken care of?” the detective replied, eyes still fixed on the other side of the room. 

“Ah, yes. Erm... John just called. The bloke’s still knocked out, cuts and bruises all over his body, but vitals are already stable.” A pause. “Sherlock, ‘you all right? You’re as white as sheet.”

The words simply flew over Sherlock’s head like a passing breeze, his mind reeling over how the situation was escalating. Surely the photographs sent to him wouldn’t have been taken over the previous hours or else Godfrey Norton would have already been dead. The intended compartment of the coffin where he was being kept was lined with chloroform, only enough to keep him unconscious. Suffocation and causing death to the victim was calculated to not happen as the photos were sent in consideration of the time and effort Sherlock would spend in determining where the body was.

But what was eerily pathetic about the situation, besides the CCTVs obviously being tampered with swiftly and seamlessly, is the thought that Sherlock might have missed the suspect by, more or less, a fraction of a second. 

And just like that, the familiarity was too obvious to ignore. Not that it matters. Because this sly attempt to make him fall into a myriad of puzzles was summarised in two words written in Godfrey Norton’s arm. 

“Can you do me a favour?” Sherlock muttered, much to Lestrade’s surprise. 

“Errr… what?” 

Sherlock sighed. “Help me guard the victim. Make sure no one gets in and out of his hospital room without supervision.”

Lestrade nodded. “Sherlock… I... You have a clue who’s behind this?”

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

“I’m afraid so.” Sherlock sighed. “Tell John to stay in Baker Street tonight with Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. We are dealing with someone whose vicious boredom was reignited and this is not a game I am willing to play again.”

He watched as Lestrade turned to his heel to heed to his request, worry and confusion evident in the detective inspector’s expression, but still determined nonetheless. And so Sherlock remembered that if there’s one thing he had learned from what happened with Eurus, it is the perils of isolation and the grievances of being blind to loyalty that may send one to even bigger agonies.

Before he could lose Lestrade from his sight, he took a deep breath, knowing the amount of surprise his next action would cause. 

“Lestrade!” he called, and the other man halted to look back at him. “I--- Thank you.”

Apparently his gratitude is enough to send people into paralysis.

***

“Godfrey Norton is… doing well from what I heard.” Sherlock breathed, his chest thrumming at the thought of hearing the next words Irene will speak over the other end of the line. 

After exactly four and a half seconds, she responded. “That’s a relief. Who would do something like this?”

As expected, Irene’s words somehow made him feel hollow. It was an aggravating sensation, that the mere curve of her words which signified well-wishing for her dear ex-husband left him with nothing but contempt, and yet from what he learned throughout the years, it is simply what the concept of sympathy is about. 

But then again, every single flicker of a thought is different when it comes to what he felt for The Woman. 

“Sherlock?” she called softly, and he realised he got too lost in his own head to even respond. 

“I’ll make arrangements for your arrival in London. We both know you have to get involved in this, even if I try my very best to prevent it, and the most logical solution is to be proactive about the situation. At the very least, it’s best that I have access to you easily so that I can ensure your safety firsthand.” was all he could say, leaving the idea that stung him the most out of the statement -- the inevitability of Irene and Godfrey Norton reuniting.

He was absolutely sure that Irene just raised her eyebrows from the other line. For what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke, “And your brother?”

“The least of our concerns at the moment.”

Sherlock was about to put the conversation to a close, when the other dreaded question was raised by Irene. “It is impossible, isn’t it? I mean, he’s dead. You don’t actually think--”

“I was dismissing it over and over, but it can’t be the same foolish trick twice. This isn’t the same as the stage Eurus has set -- this is from the spider himself.” A pause. 

As vivid as fire burning to its full extent, the image of Godfrey Norton’s vandalised arm flashed in his mind, the two words familiarly haunting as written in red ink: _Miss me?_

Hearing Irene’s gasp, Sherlock could only conclude his deduction grimly. 

“We are back to being lured in like flies in Moriarty’s web.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! The reveal of my plans, hahaha! Before I started this fic, I knew that the main foundation would be bringing back Moriarty. Because even if I found S4 likeable, the idea that he really did die at the end of S2 felt unsatisfactory to me. It wasn't until a couple of days ago when I found out about this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPj28N7Ot4w 
> 
> Whether or not it really was shown at the end credits of TFP (accounts of people upon my research vary so I cannot validate this), it inspired me to push through with the direction I was going even more and thus, this chapter was written. 
> 
> xx


	6. Vemödalen

“Oh, dear Lord…” Mycroft hissed. “It’s been less that three days since you last saw her. Are you really this anxious?” 

Sherlock snorted. “Are you?”

Mycroft looked at his brother like he just threw him the most offensive insult. “Why would I be anxious to meet Irene Adler again?”

“Oh, I don’t know, bro.” he spat the last word childishly. “You’ve been tapping your shoe for at least half an hour, I’d say enough to mark your shoe print onto the pavement; that nerve on your temple very much prominent, much to your self-denied stress…” 

“And?”

“You’re doing that thing with your mouth where its all curled and sour.” Sherlock announced triumphantly. “Hardly a difficult deduction… brother mine.” 

Mycroft smiled sardonically. “Have your little fun now, Sherlock. I’m not the one who needs to be in the same room as her and her ex-husband later… Do tell me about the happy reunion tomorrow, would you?”

***

Sherlock could barely feel the ground beneath his feet as Irene and himself drew nearer to Godfrey Norton’s hospital room. He never expected Irene to say yes when he asked if she wanted to see her ex-husband, though he simply inquired for courtesy’s sake, and yet he felt quite annoyed that he was in the current situation he is now. 

As usual, Irene’s expression was unreadable, which he couldn’t pinpoint if it should make him content or even more uneasy. She was pointedly headed towards the door… and without hesitation, she turned the knob and immediately disappeared into the room. 

Taking a deep breath, he followed in after her. 

“Ayna?” was the first thing he heard as soon as he entered. 

Godfrey Norton stirred in his bed, the tube from his IV clinking against the drip bottle as he moved. The man turned to face Irene, expression soft upon seeing her, lips forming into a small smile that made Sherlock want to leave the room. He couldn’t even figure out if it better or worse that Irene was standing with her back turned to him and he could not see her expression.

And what even is ‘Ayna’ anyway? It didn’t suit The Woman.

“Yes, darling, it’s me. Don’t move too much.” Sherlock heard her say, somehow making him realise that the situation was, indeed, worse… at least for him.

He almost cussed when he found himself stuck to where he stood, all his weight crashing down to his feet as if someone chained him to the floor. It felt like an intrusion -- a meddling of a past where he wasn’t a part of -- and everything suddenly felt foreign. And it all falls down to the fact that Irene Adler is an unending mystery. 

“It’s been so long… But you’re still as beautiful as ever.” he heard Godfrey say. 

Irene gave a soft laugh. “And you’re still a charmer, I see…” A pause. “If I may say so, I apologise for dragging you into this mess. It’s been years and I….”

The conversation trailed like smoke. Sherlock seemed to have lost his ability to hear.

Generally, he was never good at imagining how the lives of others were before they crossed paths with him. The past of the people he now know simply signified facts -- much like how he deduced that John was an army doctor recently returned from foreign travel; how Lestrade was an unappreciated officer who earned his big break by putting a major serial murder to a close, thus earning credit for succeeding into the ranks; how Mary was an ex-assassin -- etcetera, etcetera. It was in his character to believe in them as he knew them -- at the starting point of their own meeting -- nothing more, nothing less. This is why he was so eager to help Mary, because he knew her as Mary.

But now, with this culmination of past and present, involving none other than The Woman, everything felt like a blur. His mind was playing tricks on him, giving him flashes of Norton’s fingers trailing Irene’s skin to the point that he felt idiotic.

And yet, no matter how much he wants to, there lies a masochistic instinct to stay. 

“Sherlock…” Irene called, her eyes reading into his expression. 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes. I almost didn’t see you... Apologies…” the man sounded extremely kind and bashful to Sherlock’s annoyance. “I’ve been talking to Dr. Watson and you seem like a very busy man. He said you wouldn’t have time to visit. But now, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you..” Godfrey greeted with a kind smile. 

Sherlock nodded curtly. “I see that you’ve… recovered well. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I think you and Ms. Adler need some time alone.”

Without looking at the other people in the room, he turned to his heel and left. 

To his surprise, John was at one of the waiting benches just outside the door, two cups of coffee in hand. 

Before Sherlock could even ask, the doctor smiled, fishing nicotine patches out of his pocket, and handing it to him along with the other cup. “She texted me. Asked me to come.”

His brows furrowed, taking what was being handed to him. “Didn’t know you’re texting buddies now.”

“It was actually the first time today. Only knew it was her number when I read the message.” John couldn’t hide the amusement in his voice, to which Sherlock found more curious. 

“And?”

“‘On my way to the hospital with Sherlock right now. Would be needing your assistance, Doctor Watson.’ Couldn’t get any more clear than that, mate.” John replied. 

“Clearly a joke is being made that I couldn’t really get a hang of.” Sherlock quipped in annoyance. 

John smirked. “Irene Adler and her ex-husband meeting for the first time in years…. Even she knew it was an interesting scenario…” he paused when Sherlock snorted. “Even Mrs. Hudson was worried.”

“Why?”

“She said you won’t handle it well.” John stated with a shrug before taking another sip of his coffee. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “What does she know?”

“Apparently everything, looking at your expression.”

Before he could even reply, Irene exits the room, meeting his eyes. She gives John an acknowledging smile as she walked towards them. 

“Hello, doctor.” she greeted, to which John nodded back, obviously uncomfortable. 

“Erm… Nice to see you alive… and well.” he threw a side-eye at Sherlock. “How was… ah… the patient?”

Irene’s smile grew wider. “He was very grateful to Sherlock… And quite surprised to see me. It’s been years since we’ve seen or talked to each other.” 

John’s eyes darted back and forth between her and Sherlock, to which the detective gave an exasperated sigh upon noticing. 

“Right, then. I… ah… have to get to Rosie. It’s getting late… I guess, I’ll just see you around? Sort this all out?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John took the signal, giving one last nod to Irene before finally leaving. 

 

***

The entire cab ride to Baker Street was silent. 

Sherlock could see Irene glancing at him from his periphery, but the emotions steering inside of him at the moment was enough to make him feel like he could choke if he tried to speak. They made their way into the flat without any hint of starting a conversation. 

“Won’t you talk to me?” he heard Irene say as soon as they arrived. 

He turned to her, the light making her irises into a stormy shade of grey, gaze steady against his wavering own. His sighed, as if he was holding his breath for too long, wanting her to just keep their distance. “You must be tired. I’ll prepare a bath.”

“Will you join me?” she asked with a hint of frustrated humour, and he could sense that she was trying her hardest to get something out from him. But his mind was reeling with so much exhaustion, draining every bit of his energy to pulp, at par with the most intricate of cases. 

He left and did what he said so, sitting by the edge of the tub and letting the sound of the water drown his thoughts. There was a whisper in his ear that he kept on ignoring since the first day of hearing about this case -- a voice from his own subconscious trying so hard to be heard. 

‘It won’t prove anything,’ he thought to himself. ‘It’s a pathetic attempt to palliate a heavy affliction that I’ve put upon myself without any basis whatsoever.’

“It’s all about the facts, isn’t it?” Mary’s voice rang in his ear, and suddenly she was sitting at the other end of the bathtub’s edge. “Because you always have to be clever…”

“Well… That’s who I am.” he hissed. 

Mary sniggered. “And this ‘me’ you’re seeing… This is you, too. You’re projecting… again.”

Sherlock huffed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, you already know…” she replied with a smile. “You just need me to make it easier for yourself to think this is the right thing to do.”

“She’s going to think it’s absurd.” he replied gruelingly. “We… we haven’t even talked about it before. It… it doesn’t even…”

“What did John say?” Mary asked.

“I…”

“Before you know it, Sherlock.” Mary mouthed, but John’s voice echoed in the illusion. 

Not giving him a chance to reply, he was snapped back into reality with Irene standing by the door, eyes widening in surprise. The water was spilling from the tub, soaking his trousers and shoes, and Irene rushed over to him to close the tap, making her clothes also wringing-wet. 

“Sherlock, what--”

He reached for her, taking her in his arms in one fluid motion, his lips feeling the softness of her own in a fraction of a moment. His damp clothing was in contrast to the heat exuding from her skin, and he found his fingers trailing her body with intensity that will send him aching if presented with any more delay. It was evident in his movements that he was agitated -- desperate and hurting even -- his mind running wild with the idea of Godfrey Norton doing the same things to Irene Adler. 

Oh, how he didn’t want Moriarty to win. But his nemesis never disappoints when it comes to promises, and the withstanding vow of burning the heart out of him now stands firmly with the current chess match they’re having.

This was destructive to the core, and maybe, just maybe, falling into his own doom like what he did at Barts was the way to go. The need to jump was a necessity, and the situation was playing out possibly how Moriarty planned it, seeing that his mind is now clouded by the thoughts of his own misery. 

But the years have changed him. And he was not the same man Moriarty met by the pool many years back. He was not willing to play anymore. Not now. Not when Irene is at the heart of it all. 

Gasping for air, he could feel that Irene was about to say something, probably to note of his actions, but his own sentimentality got ahead of him that he raced her to it. 

Setting all his inhibitions aside, much more than how he let go of himself with what has transpired back then in Karachi, Sherlock breathed in the smell of her, the sight of her, and the feel of her. 

He held Irene even closer, letting all of his burdens since the conundrum started be summarised into three words he never imagined he’ll say. 

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vemödalen - n. the fear that everything has already been done. From The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, by John Koenig.


	7. Escapism

It’s been a good solid day since he left his flat -- and her -- as soon as the words escaped his lips. He was sure she called out to him, but it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to get away from whatever she was about to say or to see the look on her face upon hearing his confession. 

John may have qualified his involvement with The Woman to romantic entanglement many times to the point that his avoidance of her reaction seemed unnecessary, but in all the years of their rendezvous and their acquaintanceship, this was the first time those three words actually made their appearance. 

He doesn’t know why but it made him fearful. 

His clothes were crisp from being air-dried, his skin cold underneath. He looked at his phone and saw no messages or calls -- but of course, Irene isn’t one to initiate a conversation of this weight virtually. Sherlock could only wish he could find a development in the case that would distract him -- and her -- for the time being. 

The street lights were shining brightly over Hungerford Bridge as always, and it was only then that he took notice of where he is and how long it has been. As he was about to pull the cigarette out of his pocket and light it, somehow to no surprise did he see her standing just a couple of feet away from him, expression unreadable.

“How did you find me?” he asked flatly. 

“Why did you leave?” she replied back, not answering his question. 

He ignored her. “Ah, yes, Mycroft.”

Irene nodded. “So… why?”

“I needed time to think.” he simply said. 

“About?” she drew in one step closer. 

He looked away into the faraway lights, the railings of the bridge causing shadows to cast over his face. “There are quite a few things I must clear out.”

“Go ahead. Ask.” Irene replied, mirroring his movements and smiling to herself as she looked away from him. 

He was quiet for a moment, calculating what he needs to say. It was certain that the need to address the looming situation will come, but Irene being Irene, he knows she will not press the matter unless she deems him ready. 

So instead, he took a deep breath and tried to keep his expression at bay. 

“I never thought you were the marrying type.” he mused. 

“I was running away. I needed him.” Irene simply replied. 

“There’s more.” Sherlock suggested. 

In response, Irene nodded. 

Finally, he turned to her, trying to see if he can read something on her face. As usual, nothing. 

“Dare to tell?” he finally prodded. 

Irene smirked. “He was a barrister. It was simple. I needed a way out of something and he was a willing and… well… not a bad candidate.”

Sherlock scoffed. “So it was simply for convenience?”

“I don’t just use people, Sherlock. I’m not heartless.” Irene replied curtly.

Sherlock remained silent that Irene felt the urge to just continue. Her eyes were stormy, lips pursed. 

“We were relatively young then. He needed to run away from his glorious life of gold and silver and wanted to live out his wildest dreams. But he was scared on his own. It was tit-for-tat.” she explained further. 

“You care for him.” Sherlock added quietly. 

Irene’s lips tilted ever so slightly. “We did stay together for years. He wasn’t that bad of a company.” 

“Why did it end?” Sherlock’s voice was distant now, almost sounding like it wasn’t his own. His eyes were unfocused on whatever it was he was looking at, his senses all on his hearing. 

“He…” Irene started, and something about her voice sounded hesitant. Still, she continued, “... he expected more. Somehow, I was the only one who saw our relationship as it is: a massive scapegoat.” 

Sherlock felt his entire body go numb. Still, his mind was as sharp as ever. “He… he fell in love with you.”

“He thought he did.” Irene replied flatly. “But it was dependency. It was parasitic. He loved the idea of having to depend on our relationship as he continued to run away from his past. I moved on from running to surviving in a way he never did. It became exhausting.”

Sherlock nodded, voice almost to a whisper. “Fair enough.”

To that, Irene laughed. “Did you understand the moral of the story, Sherlock?”

The detective turned to her, looking at her fully now to see that she was looking back at him, eyes boring deep into his own. He knew he carried a questioning expression, and quite possibly, even fear. 

She reached for his hand, smiling as her flesh made contact with his. “You look puzzled. How disappointing.”

His eyes were trained on their hands touching, wondering what on earth is she possibly on about. Is she hinting that like her and Norton, theirs was also a story riding on mutual need that would eventually meet its end? 

“You’re overthinking… as always.” she quipped, amused. “In summary, if I want things to end, I just severe the ties. I never wallow in things of the heart. I hate… sentiment, as you put it. At least, sentiment founded on nothing to be taken pride of.”

Her hold on his hand tightened. “And yet here we are. I hope that’s clear enough for you.”

“About what I said…” Sherlock started but Irene shook her head. 

“I don’t mind. Not at all.” she simply said, resting her head on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end it on a cliffhanger as I always do but things are a bit rough for me and I felt like writing something lighthearted for once. We’ll be back to our usual heartstopping chapter conclusions in the next parts. :)


End file.
